


Sacrament

by EFG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Chapel sex, Emotional Manipulation, John Cameo, M/M, Smut, Teenlock, non-con, school au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EFG/pseuds/EFG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty controls the entire school, from the dean right down to the lunch menu. At least his most recent conquest, an irritating former rival turned 'best friend', dares to fight back. Best have some fun with this while there's still a spirit to break...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrament

"We're in a fucking _church_ , Jim."

Sherlock's voice is tremulous, a little breathy - probably because Jim's got him pushed up against a tall storage chest and is currently engaged with groping him through the front of his trousers.

"It's a chapel, actually," Jim corrects with a sly cheshire grin. Sherlock's trying to shove him off, but he grabs hold of the other boy's neck and manages to force him backwards, pressing his hips up against the wooden chest behind him. "And you do realise that's sort of the _whole point,_ dearest."

"Stop- _ah_ , f-fucking _quit it_ , Christ's sake! Father Lawrence could be back any second!"

Sherlock bares his teeth, grabs a fistful of Jim's shirt but Jim just tightens his grip on Sherlock's windpipe and Sherlock lets go with a choke and a wince. Under his other hand Jim can feel the tight pressure of an erection - even Sherlock's adamant refusal to go along with this isn't enough to stop his body's instinctual reaction to stimulation. Still so determined to fight, though... adorable.

"He went to run off copies of a hymn book, that'll take at least twenty minutes," Jim explains patiently, still grinning. Sherlock squints his eyes open and glares, but doesn't get a chance to argue before Jim draws back and forcibly turns him round so he's bent forwards over the storage cabinet.

"Fucking _bastard_ ," Sherlock snarls, trying to hit him. Jim just grabs the other boy's flailing wrist and twists his arm back round into his spine, making Sherlock hiss in pain as he grits his teeth. What a fetching little grimace. And oh, but he always has to act like he's got a chance in hell of winning back control... God, Jim really couldn't have asked for a more enticing conquest.

"If you keep shouting like that someone's going to come in here to check if we're all right," Jim reminds his little toy in a low, sultry mumble, leaning in close. Sherlock reluctantly bites his own lip, presses his face into the crook of his free arm as if trying to block out the fact that any of this is happening. Jim can't help the little snicker that escapes his chest at that reaction. Oh, _honey_. Is it really so bad? Well, you certainly won't be ignoring things for much longer...

All play aside, though, they really are short on time. And Jim is bound and determined to realise this particular little fantasy whilst they've got the fleeting chance. Without preamble he reaches around and undoes Sherlock's trousers one-handed (keeping his other firmly pinning Sherlock's arm in place, because God knows the little bastard's not above fighting his way out of this). He pulls them down just enough to expose what he's after, then turns to his own belt.

"God's sake, don't..." Sherlock mumbles, his voice almost a plea. He turns his head a bit to fix a desperate glare on Jim. "Just let me suck you off or something, Christ. You can't expect to get away with- ah!"

Jim twists the wrist in his grip up a little more, making Sherlock's words sputter out in pain. No time now for annoying plea bargains - no, they're to the final stage of his _fucking in the school chapel_ plan and damned if he's going to see it ruined by Sherlock being a whingeing little bitch about the whole thing.

He slips the tiny little sample-sized bottle of lubricant out of his pocket, warmed by his body heat after having been carrying it around all day. Bites the top off with his teeth - still not about to release his prey, _God_ no - and relishes in the startled twitch when he pours out the whole thing over Sherlock's bare skin.

"You're a bastard and I hate you," Sherlock groans in resigned defeat. He grits his teeth and buries his face in his arm once more, refusing to react beyond a tiny flinch as Jim slips a finger inside him.

"Sweeter words were never said, my dear," Jim murmurs seductively. Another finger - rushing this along too quickly, probably, because Sherlock hisses and his shoulders tense up. But that's fine, they're on a schedule. Not to mention how wonderfully Jim's groin pulses with rushing heat whenever Sherlock winces. Sadist, God... getting off on hurting others. Such a _monster_.

He smiles. Always good to reaffirm oneself.

Below him Sherlock's compulsively clutching at the edge of the storage crate, shoving his eyes tightly against his sleeve, gritting his teeth. Jim doesn't need to look to know the taller boy's got a raging erection. Because despite all efforts to block this out, think of other things, whatever, Sherlock's got no power whatsoever over his body's arousal system. Certainly not when Jim's pressing the buttons.

And oh goodness, how he can press, and press _hard_. Sherlock squeaks a bit in response, then goes still, muscles taut with embarrassment. Reluctantly Jim withdraws his fingers. He'd love to just keep at this til he makes the skinny fuck come all over himself but they've got a schedule to keep to. And his prick's only getting stiffer.

A condom would probably be the responsible thing to have - something Sherlock would doubtless appreciate, too, what with the lack of access to a shower. Jim deliberately hasn't brought any. He frees himself from his pants, feels the hot, taut flesh in his hand straining under the pressure of too much blood. Wonders what it would look like to puncture it. Crimson spurting like a fountain, a hot slice of pain up his groin, into his spine... excruciating. The mental imagery only makes him harder. A steel beam of too-tight skin in his grip now. And, before him... a waiting sheath.

Sherlock grunts in pain and surprise and no small amount of outrage at the blunt first intrusion. Jim just leans forward, presses the other boy's head down into his arm and forces himself into scorching velvet heat with a few long strokes. Within seconds the spasming muscles around him loosen up, inadvertently welcoming him deeper. Oh, but Sherlock tries to pretend he hates this, he _really_ tries. There's no mistaking those breathy huffs, though. The rhythmically clenching fingers, the way his bony hips press ever-so-slightly backwards like he wants _more_. Can't help it, can he? The little slut.

Jim gives his lover everything he won't admit to wanting. Searches out the angles and moves just the right way, hitting what he knows to be a sensitive bundle of nerves. Sherlock makes an odd, strangled noise and his whole body tenses up. Muscles quivering, gnashing his teeth in frustration. He's right on that verge where he desperately wants this to stop and at the same time absolutely couldn't stand it if Jim were to pull out. Jim knows this because he's experimented before - quit right at this point, when Sherlock begged him to. Then he'd sat back and watched the proud little bitch huddle over himself in a miserable sulk with the worst blueball of his life for hours afterward. Pfft, idiot. Careful what you wish for.

Definitely won't be backing out early this time, however. With a victorious grin he slams himself as deep inside as he can go, relishes in the writhing underneath him. Sherlock bucks back against his hips, then flinches, tries in vain to draw away, a disjointed _go-no-stop-argh-keep-going-fuck-just-_ jumble of conflicting body language.

Then suddenly there's a new sound - the door opening. Jim and Sherlock both look up in shocked tandem as the semi-dark room's bathed in light from the hall.

"James, by boy, you still in here?"

There's a short stack of unused pews directly beside them, blocking Father Lawrence's view of their sordid exploits - Jim had chosen his spot specifically for that feature, just in case of a scheduling upset. And because he can plausibly pretend to be getting something from the storage chests back here. He pops his head up over the rough wood of the old pews and smiles at the elderly man standing in the doorway.

"Hullo, sir!" he calls brightly. Underneath him Sherlock's squirming, frantic, trying to push him off, but Jim holds fast. Soft muscles tighten like burning fire around his cock in anger or fear or perhaps a combination of both and Jim nearly comes right there from the heat of it all. Luckily he doesn't, instead clenches his groin against release, grins guilelessly at the clueless adult standing a scant few metres away. "Back so soon?"

"Hm, yes. Couldn't make the blasted machine work. You know how I am with those technological whats-its, can't make heads or tails of 'em." Father Lawrence huffs to himself and strides over to the other side of the room to set his hymn book on a desk. The moment his back's turned Jim pulls back again and thrusts hard, deep as he can go. Keeps his restraint, though - goes slowly as lust will allow. Has to avoid the loud slap against flesh when their hips meet. Sherlock bites his own sleeve to keep from making noise and trembles around him, a furious grimace on his flushed face.

"Did you check to make sure it was turned on this time, sir?" Jim asks, smiling. He leans one arm on the pew beside him to steady his upper body, hoping to keep his head and shoulders still while he gently rocks his hips back and forth. Just the right angle, now. Can feel himself hitting a sensitive knot of prostate tissue with every smooth thrust. Sherlock squeaks almost imperceptibly into his sleeve and scrabbles a bit with his hand before clenching it in a tight fist against cold wood.

Father Lawrence turns around and raises greying brows at Jim. Doesn't ask about the odd movements, his rhythmic swaying... which must mean he can't see it. Good. To the elderly priest Jim must look to be casually leaning against the pews, smiling like a daft ponce. Not an entirely uncharacteristic sight, that. Won't suspect a thing.

"You coming down with something, lad?" Lawrence questions after a short pause, brows furrowing slightly. "You look a tad flushed."

Jim waves his hand dismissively. "Oh no, no. Just lifting boxes back here, you know. Thought I'd go through a few of these old sermons... been some lovely ones over the last decade."

Keeping his voice steady despite the swelling push of orgasm's turning out to be a bit of a trick, but he manages it. Sherlock's not doing nearly so well holding his composure, of course. The boy's whole body's gone rigid, quivering against tight internal pressure, teeth clenched hard on the fabric of his uniform jumper. Jim darts a glance down at him and has to force the wicked grin off his face. Another thrust, in, out, scraping against raw nerve endings. Sherlock trembles so hard he's practically vibrating.

Father Lawrence smiles indulgently. "Ah, have you then! You're a lad after me own heart, James. Bright future in the church, too, eh? Priesthood's calling your name last I heard."

Jim has to work hard to smother a laugh at that. "Oh most certainly, sir."

Below him Sherlock huffs out a nearly-inaudible grunt, pale fingers gripping white-knuckled on the corner of the storage chest. Then like a switch being flipped his muscles suddenly begin to pulse rhythmic squeezing spasms around the base of Jim's cock. If he were to look Jim knows he'd see a splash of white decorating the carpet, Sherlock's seed spending itself all down the side of the wooden crate. Can't risk taking his eyes off Father Lawrence, of course, but the knowledge of his success in forcing Sherlock to come just by holding the boy down and fucking him is more than enough to push Jim's erection to near-bursting. Groin still clenched hard against the rush, though... not sure if he can manage to ejaculate and keep his facial expression placid at the same time. Might be too much for even his impressive acting skills to mask.

Mercifully Father Lawrence chooses that moment to turn around, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. Sweet, sweet relief. Jim lets his face twist into a grimace and with a few short thrusts lets the explosion burst free. Pleasure crashes up through his chest like a racing electric current, a tidal wave of static bliss. With a stifled groan he presses his hips as far forward as he can, burying himself to the hilt in firey velvet. Sherlock's muscles finally loosen around him to accept his full length, malleable to the pump of his cock as semen pours deep into tight heat.

Quick as lightning Jim smooths his face back into a smile and lifts his head again just as Father Lawrence turns back around. His prick twitches one last time in Sherlock's arse, then falls still.

"Have a look through these, then, lad," the priest says genially. "Notes for next week's sermon. Maybe you'd like to give writing a go, eh? You'd make a fine preacher, James."

Out of the corner of his eye Jim can see Sherlock freeze, staring wide-eyed at the pews blocking his view as the sound of Father Lawrence's footsteps grow closer. Jim presses down harder on the other boy's arm, forcing him to stay still, while the priest walks up beside them. If the man were to lean the tiniest bit forward, have a little glance downwards... God, but wouldn't _that_ be a spectacle. Jim almost hopes he does it. Just to see the reaction.

Lawrence doesn't look, though. Instead he holds Jim's steady gaze, smiles, wrinkled face full of warmth. He passes over a thin sheaf of paper and Jim accepts it with an enthusiastic grin.

"Thanks, sir!"

"I know you'll do me proud, lad," Lawrence calls, turning back toward the door. "Be sure to flip the lights off when you're done in here, then, aye?"

"Of course!"

And with that the priest's gone.

Jim and Sherlock wait frozen for almost a minute, still joined by hot flesh, listening to the man's footsteps fade. Finally Jim's face breaks into a wide, manic grin and he lets go of Sherlock's arm.

Immediately Sherlock straightens up, shoves Jim off and stumbles away from him all in one frantic movement. Jim grunts in displeasure as his half-soft cock pulls roughly free of its warm sheath.

Hrmph, so impatient. On second thought he shouldn't have let the little rat go so easily; now he'll think he gets his way if he cooperates. Ah but then again it's no matter, is it, since they'd not bothered with a condom... Sherlock's going to be figuring that particular detail out in a moment. Plenty effective a reminder of his lowly place in their power dynamic.

Sure enough the other boy quickly screws his face up, disgusted by the feeling of warm semen dripping down the inside of his thigh. He pulls his trousers up anyway in an apparent decision to just ignore it. Doubtless his pants'll be damp the rest of the day. Jim smirks.

"You are a _fucking lunatic_ ," Sherlock snarls, pointing at him. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair's stood on end. Dishevelled like the filthy whore he is. Quite fetching.

Jim ignores the insult. Instead he focusses on the priest's notes still clutched in one hand, using the other to idly tuck himself back into his pants and do up his trousers.

"Hm... suppose I've a sermon to write, then." He flips to the second page and raises a brow in amusement. "Looks like he wants it all on the virtues of chastity."

Despite his supremely pissed-off expression Sherlock snorts. "Brilliant," he mutters. Turning around he stalks moodily towards the back exit of the chapel storage room. Jim follows after him, flips the lights off when they leave. Ever the good lad.

"What did I say about smoking?" Jim asks in a sing-song voice as they step outside. Sherlock's already got his lighter to the fag in his mouth, flips Jim off with the hand sheltering the flame.

"Get fucked," he mumbles around his cig, tucking the lighter back into his pocket. He begins to walk away and pointedly doesn't react to Jim trailing along after him.

"That's _your_ job, honey." He grins as Sherlock turns to glare at him over his shoulder. Abruptly the taller boy whips around to walk backwards in front of him - Jim doesn't miss the way he winces when his legs separate a bit too far.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Sherlock's tone is a low growl, but there's an undercurrent of genuine inquisitiveness. He honestly wants to know the answer. Like Jim's nonsensical actions might all magically combine to form some sort of deranged logic puzzle he can solve with just a bit of thought. "It can't all be down to a show of power - you've bloody well asserted your dominance by now. And there's no need for further blackmail material on me, so it isn't that. You stood to lose far more by getting caught back there than I did, can't have just been meant to unsettle me..."

Jim toys with the idea of telling him the truth - that he'd just done it for fun. Because it was a _challenge_. Because he's _bored_. He controls everyone and everything in this whole bloody establishment and the idea of failure, the looming threat of being caught fucking another boy in the chapel storage room, shattering his entire future and everything he's worked towards with one ridiculous plot, had provided a brief thrill in his otherwise monotonous existence. Sherlock might very well relate to that, actually... he'd often complained of being bored back before Jim had ensnared him in his web, hadn't he? Always looking for something to do.

Well, he's never bored now. Best keep things that way. Jim's lone act of charity.

With a deliberately ambiguous facial expression Jim closes the distance between them in a few quick strides, grabs Sherlock's upper arms with an air like perhaps he's about to lean in for a kiss. Doesn't, of course. No, instead he shoves the other boy violently back into the trunk of a tree and pins him in place by pressing a forearm over the pale freak's throat.

Sherlock chokes in surprise, drops his cigarette into the grass. Jim glances down and steps on it.

"No more smoking," he orders in a low growl. "It's disgusting."

" _You_ smoke," Sherlock forces out indignantly through a half-compressed windpipe. Knows Jim won't risk killing him - not in broad daylight, anyway - and so he hasn't bothered to react to the arm over his neck. No fearful scrabbling, no clawing or kicking or attempts to push him off... not even giving in to the instinct to gasp for breath. Jim frowns. Fuck, so _boring._ He increases the pressure on the other's throat and scowls more deeply when Sherlock just grits his teeth.

They hold each other's gazes for several long seconds, neither willing to break first. Jim's fully prepared to keep this up til Sherlock passes out. How long will it take? A minute? Two?

Luckily for Sherlock's continued grip on consciousness a sudden shout breaks their stalemate.

"Oi, what's going on over there?!"

A youngish-looking professor strides round the corner of the chapel building. Not quite spotted them in full, not from that angle, but clearly seen enough in their body language to suspect a fight. Jim immediately releases Sherlock's neck. Then quick as lightning he reaches down with his now-free hand, slams the other boy's knuckles into the rough bark of the tree. Sherlock hisses in startled pain, clutches his newly-injured fist to his chest while Jim throws himself backwards onto the walking path behind him. With a bit of a twist he manages to land face-first on hard cobblestones, bloodying his own nose.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't hit me again!" he wails as he swiftly picks himself back up. Sherlock stares down at him all startled outrage. The professor finally reaches them in a burst of a jog and places himself between the two boys.

"What happened?" he barks sternly. His eyes stray over the abrasions on Sherlock's hand, Jim's bleeding face. Sherlock blinks as the man turns a glare his way. "Did you hit him?"

"I..." he hesitates, darts a glance toward Jim.

 _Say yes_ , Jim says in a wordless stare. _Or I'll ruin you._

Sherlock's expression flits into an angry frown, brows furrowed - oh, but he so hates the fact that he's in a position to be bullied around this way. _Loathes_ it. And now quite possibly planning to defect just for the sake of asserting his own independence... can't have that, now can we? Jim lets his face harden to a dangerous warning. Remember what's at stake, fool. _Don't even think for a second I won't destroy everything I've built just to hurt you..._

The message gets across loud and clear. Sherlock swallows convulsively, his face smoothing over to hide a flash of fear, and he looks back up to the professor.

"Yes," he mutters. "He was, erm... pissing me off."

With a sigh the man shakes his head. "What year are you, then, nine?"

"Ten," Sherlock answers with a faint hint of irritation to his voice. He and Jim get mistaken for younger-years constantly - Jim because he's absurdly small and doe-eyed, and Sherlock because puberty seems to have taken to selectively forsaking him over the last few years. Narrow shoulders and too-thin chest at ridiculous odds with his willowy height and rapidly-deepening voice. Next to such a freakshow Jim's short but well-proportioned stature might as well be that of a prize fighter.

"You as well?" the professor asks of Jim, who nods. As soon as the man turns back to Sherlock Jim narrows his eyes. What the hell does this guy teach? Some sixth-form class? Or... oh, _no_ , no no hang on wait he's not a professor at all! Hands, bearing, clothes. He's a _medic._ Replacement for the school nurse? Doubtless introduced to the student body at that mandatory school-wide assembly a few weeks back, the one Jim and Sherlock had to skip in order to organise the final leg of Nurse Penny's ultimate demise.

Sherlock still hasn't stopped sulking over that one, come to think of it. _Why'd we have to kill her...?_ Ugh, why _not?!_ Bloody over-sentimental moron. Wondering what would happen to her _family_ , of all things. Good lord.

But look at this one, then, a brand new target. Perhaps a more grisly death this time? Get Sherlock over his hateful aversion to murder with a good old-fashioned bloodbath, yes. Brilliant. Have to set it up carefully, though - make sure it's an accident. Ensure the position of school health advisor lives up to its reputation of being cursed.

"All right, then, up we get." The medic reaches down to haul Jim to his feet. Sherlock shoots him a look - doubtless caught on to the gist of his thoughts by now, they've both identified the new adult's position. _For God's sake you fucking psychopath just leave him alone_ , his eyes say. Jim smirks from under the man's arm. _Not happening._

He quickly shifts his expression into a look of nervous fear as the medic produces a clean square of tissue from his pocket and sets himself to checking his nose. Sherlock, temporarily out of the man's line of sight, angrily rolls his eyes. _Two-faced arsehole,_ his body language hisses wordlessly. A second later he's forced to mask his irritation as the adult turns his way, rendering himself an utter hypocrite. Jim's now free to emote as he likes again so he grins and sticks his tongue out. Sherlock glares.

"Well, his nose isn't broken. Lucky you." The man's gaze shifts back round to Jim, whose mockery flips instantly back into timid fright. "Doesn't look like it was even all that hard a blow, actually... not quite bad enough for a cold pack. All right if I just write you up as having gone back to class without treatment?"

Jim sniffs, dabbing at his nose with the tissue. "Y-yeah... I think I'll b-be okay, sir."

"Brilliant, then. Here's a note for your professor." The man scribbles out a quick missive in a pad of paper he'd fetched out of his lapel pocket and hands it to Jim. "Off you go."

Jim smiles, watery and pathetic, and shoots a convincingly nervous glance toward Sherlock as he backs away. Once he's three or four steps off he turns and bolts. Like he's terrified of getting beaten up again. As if he'd even _care_ , honestly. Sherlock's acid glare burns twin holes in his shoulders and he can't help but snicker to himself as he runs. _Have fun with your disciplinary write-up, dear._

Over his shoulder he can just barely hear the medic address Sherlock.

"Now, as for you..."

 


End file.
